


a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window

by oncewewerezombies



Series: forming a heart-shape in the air with our hands entwined [1]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Banter, Dating, F/M, First Dates, Intermission style, Kissing, Mixed species society, Mobsters, RSVP, References to Canon-Typical Violence, Slow Romance, The Midnight Crew - Freeform, carapacian, sburb mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-20 17:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18129356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: The life of a mobster is a busy one.It's not that much of a surprise that Hearts Boxcars turned to internet dating to help fill a certain gap in his life.It's more of a surprise that a sharp dame like Miss R Lalonde might just be thinking of entering into something of an understanding with him.





	a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window

What do you think you're doing, is what Slick demands to know as you carefully stand in front of the hallway mirror and check that your hat is to a carefully jaunty angle. Maybe dashing isn't your forte, but it doesn't mean you're going to start the night by not putting your best foot forward. Not when you've got a date, at long last. You’d almost given up on that website. Matches made daily, your fucking foot.

You can't seriously think some dame would be interested in you. You great lummox. Look at you, parading around like you’re expecting a classy broad to actually buy the act like it’s a silken pig’s ear.

The underhanded stab is almost expected, a form of punctuation that is a characteristic of Spades Slick and his behaviourals. You don't need this kind of brutally playful malarky. What you need is for this suit to stay intact. At least until you’ve been seen in it by the person who’s meant to see it. A casual swipe of your hand sends the slender stiletto he'd just tried to insert between your thoracic struts clattering to one side, and the sneer on your murderous leader's face only increases in size. It’s a sneer that somehow is almost bigger than its owner; has something of a life of its own, you might say.

Got a date, with an actual woman, you say like you don't give a damn. You eye your reflection in the mirror again, and adjust your bowtie minutely; looking pretty fucking good, if you do say so yourself. As silently as you do say it. Not like how you say what you say next, all out loud and passing over your flapping gums. Guess you don’t know what that feels like, Slick. 

His eyes widen in sudden shocked fury, and you tap your hat back to a more dashing angle with a heavy finger before stepping around him to the door, hand landing firmly on the knob to turn it. Getting out of there before he can do much about your sideways talking sassery sounds like a good idea. You’ve got experience, although you usually ain’t one to deliberately draw his ire. It’s the surprise of it all that gives you the expectant moment to make your exit

Bye, boss. See you later.

The door closes behind you with a decisive sound with your abscondment and you take a breath. Look up at the sky, check your timepiece where it’s wrapped around the expanse of your wrist. Time to meet a lady. It ain’t right to keep a sharp dame waiting; ain’t like you’ve got over much practical experience in these matters but you’ve watched a god awful amount of flicks. From the sappy to the saucy. They do got a few common elements though, so you’re hoping you won’t be too out of your depth.

Entering the restaurant sideways and ducking your head, hand holding hat to noggin precautionarily, you look down at the awestruck fancypants who’s meant to be holding the door. In a fight, they’d be useless. What sort of dunderheaded outfit puts someone that skinny in the place that meets the first blows? Stupid. Although maybe you’re doing them a disservice; not many people think a lot of Deuce before they see him in action. 

Table for two, Boxcars. Seven o’clock.

Yes, sir, right this way. Your dinner guest has arrived already.

It ain't like you ain't both seen pictures of each other already, only a fool would buy a pig in a poke. Or go on a date with someone who had a profile without a photo. You haven't been backwards about your species status, nor had she been. There'd just been something in the way she'd worded her profile summary and the almost wistful aura of the emojis that had punctuated her words like soft fog over dark waters had drawn you in. She hadn't recoiled from your overtures when you'd made them, or blocked you - she'd even suggested the idea of a date. A face to face meeting, instead of just talking to each other through the website's messaging system. You've got your heart in your throat all the same coming up to the table, following this nancywaist of a servitor.

He hadn't called her your date; who could possibly think that the vision of beauty starting to rise up from the badly dressed table with its water-spotted cutlery could be your _date?_ You know she is, and you can't even believe it for a moment. You blink. She's a goddess, a strangely physical phenomenon in a striking pink dress that dips low over her cleavage in soft folds, blond curls bobbing around the sharp angle of her jawline.

Those lavender eyes are even more arresting in person than in a picture on your computer screen; you feel something inside your thoracic cabinet stutter.

Mr Boxcars?

Yeah, you answer her before you swallow, feeling like you're swallowing past a Sahara of dry detritus lodged in your throat. Sandy and scratchy, something that brings your gravelly voice down to something even harsher. You can't keep your eyes from sweeping over her, while somewhere on the inside you wince. Some debonair lover you're turning out to be, you _schmuck_. That's me, you say.

She dimples at you, smiling and showing oddly blunt teeth. For a moment, you'd expected something sharper, for all their whiteness. She gestures at the seat across from her, and you're pretty sure your waiter has disappeared in a haze of insignificance while you've just been _looking_ at her. She's beautiful. She's a fucking stunner, what the _fuck_ does she want with a lumbering galoot like you? You can hear Slick sharp and disparaging in the hind corridors of your thinkmeats, saying everything your sudden doubt is bringing you down to.

You look just like your photo, she says.

You think? 

Carefully, slowly, you sit down after you answer her statement with a question and she seats herself again, gives those bouncing curls a little fluff. Long lines of diamonds glitter on her lobes, drawing your eyes to the swan-like curve of her neck. Elegant, is what you keep thinking. She's a hot looker, alright, and what are you? You perch on the chair like you're expecting it to break beneath you in a hot second - which you fucking do, god damn it and everything about this world that wasn't built for men like you - and she bites her lip. Looks winsome, and soft as a dove. Something about the spark in her eyes marks her as a firecracker though, and even as you're dragging yourself down and telling yourself she can't be interested in you, not seriously but she leans forward. Elbows on the table like no sort of lady and propping her tits up like she's giving you a view on purpose; you blink, dragging your eyes up and taking your hat off, setting it behind you on the knob of the chairback - only someone with absolutely no class at all would leave their hat on in this situation. 

You look better than your photo is what you venture to say to her, saying something what like you think maybe one of those suave guys in the flick would say to a dame like her.

Her laugh is like a chain of silver bells, striking all the way down to the heart of you. You wanna hear it more often. You wonder what else is gonna make her laugh like that, her throat moving and her mouth smiling, so fucking unrestrained. Despite yourself, you relax. Maybe you're not doing too badly after all.

You doggone _flatterer_ , she says.

The dimples she's flashing are doing strange fluttery things to your insides. You're not a flutterer, not by any stretch of the imagination. You banish the lurking spectre of a disapproving and sarcastic Slick from your mind with an effort, and make a try at a small smile of your own. Not baring the triangular shapes of your fangs, or hinting at just how mobile the hinges of your jaw are. Some people just need eating, right? But this ain't that kind of situation. This is a classy sorta place, even if their dishwashing really ain't up to par.

Ain't flattery if it's the truth, ma'am.

Oh please! She dimples again at you, like you're worth smiling at. Like she likes what she sees, and she's aiming a lure to cast at you - as though you need it. Oh god, you're as caught as a piece of fish fillet already steaming on the plate and you just hope she's gentle when she lets you down. Maybe it'll be worth trying again, though. Call me Roxy. I think we've talked enough to be on first name terms with each other by now. 

Roxy. You taste her name on your tongue like some kind of fine wine, like you haven't ever really had an excuse to drink. I guess you should call me Hearts then.

Hearts it is! You know, I think that's jus' so fuggin' sweet, she murmurs. Elegant fingers toy with the end of one of those curls, the ebony curves of her lipsticked mouth still smiling as she tugs on the gleaming spiral before she goes on to say something more. You seemed like such a sweetie online, I couldn't resist meeting up with you for realsies.

That's, uh. That's real nice of ya...Roxy. You swallow and pick up the water glass to try and drown out this dryness in your throat. You've never really had someone _happy_ to see you, especially not a good looking broad like this. Sometimes one of the Crew might be _thankful_ to see you turn up, so you can commence with your strong-fisted way of sorting a situation out, but that ain't the same as being happy to see you. Not the way Roxy is insinuating she mighta been real pleased to see your ugly mug looming up to the dinner table. 

Let's order, huh? I'm feeling pretty hungry.

She flips the menu up in front of her face, eyes looking at you coyly over the top and you let yourself show an inch of a close-mouthed smile before picking up your own. Your eyes scan through the options, and you feel out of your fucking depth yet again. She'd suggested the place, not the kinda joint you usually came to. Most of all of this had been her reaching out - even if you'd messaged her first. You just want a god damn steak, and a pile of it. You're pretty sure you've nailed it down, but they want _how_ much for _that_ many ounces? You'd like to tell 'em they're dreaming, but you're pretty sure that then they'd be within their rights to toss you out on your ass. You don't want to do that, you're on a date.

Would you like another moment, madam, sir? 

The officious twit that passes as a server here makes his reappearance. His feelings on the pair of you are palpable. You feel his eyes travelling over you, over her, the mismatch of your physical bodies and you ache to knock his fucking teeth out by throwing him through that nice street-side window. You're reminded why you don't go out often. There wasn't another hardshell in the place, it was just all fucking softbodies and you feel outta place and somehow diminished and you want - you _could_ do something really fucking uncivilized here -

Aw yeah, we're ready to get our grub on, Roxy chirps, smacking the menu down over her empty plate. She flutters her eyelashes at you and you can feel the back of your neckshield getting hot underneath. Damn. I'll have another dry martini on tanqueray 10 with an olive, while we're waitin', and a bottle of that real nice twennyten Bordeaux ya got for th' table, she rattles off with conviction and she sounds so pretty taking charge, you're willing to let her do the talking. Hey, sugarplum, you feeling hungry?

 _Starved_ , you growl out, and you don't really mean just for steak.

She smiles at you and it's almost feral, beautiful and toothy, something that'd take back any normal man who took that smile from her. It just makes your smile deepen a little, feeling like you're falling back into that easy way you'd both found when chatting through the website. Maybe this ain't so bad, after all. The dipstick in an apron swallows hard, and she smacks him in the chest with the menus once she grabs yours from your hands to get rid of it.

Perfect! Then I'll order.

You're not so sure that this is how it's meant to go, but you gesture for her to go ahead, resting your elbows on the table, your chin on your hands. The diners and staff already think of you as uncultured trash, so you don't mind proving them right. You watch her with hot eyes, and consider the way her mouth has this sly way to it as she turns her head to the pole-axed waiter and then starts to roll off a whole list of foods. Sounds like damn near the whole menu, and every part of it that was rare and bloody. 

You are aware that the cote de boeuf is meant for _two_ diners - the moron in tight black pants tries to interrupt her, and Roxy snorts. As explosively and disdainfully as a queen. 

Uh, yuh _huh_. That's why I'm getting the lobster and _he's_ having the steak, can't have you starving my man, she spits before turning to you with a beaming grin. Then she whips her head back around. Oh, and a dozen oysters, she orders from the gaping fool standing at your tableside as cool as a cucumber, the West Coast ones, my good man, now shoo. She dimples at you while the waiter escapes with visible relief, turning that sharp lavender-eyed gaze on you. Do Carapacians have the same saying about oysters as humans do, she says with seemingly idle curiosity.

How do you mean, doll, you say, because you know what she means but you wanna hear her say it. The corners of her eyes crease, and she laughs throatily. Hands clasped together in front of her chin, elbows just as on the table as you. Guess everyone's got their bad manners on tonight. You're probably scandalising the other inhabitants of the restaurants and you're lovin' it. 

Well, you know, she says coyly, before beckoning for you to lean closer. Once you're close enough for her satisfaction, she whispers loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear, they have an _effect_ on a guy, make him real _randy_. She purses her lips and sits back, before picking up her martini glass to pick the olive out of it, drawing it off the toothpick with her bared teeth, grinning at you all the while. Chews. Swallows. 

We sure do, doll. But I wouldn't need anything like that with a classy dame like you.

Ohhhh, _Mr Boxcars_ , you're just the most charmin' gennulmun, she giggles, tossing her head a little. An act of being coy. You watch her throat, soft and white. You're a fucking pervert, watching her this way and thinking the thoughts you are, and you're hoping she's as much of one as she seems to be. Maybe she is...actually serious, about something. With someone like you.

Not wanting to ruin the good run you apparently have managed to get on, despite yourself, you have another gulp of water to hide the fact that you're not saying anything. It doesn't matter much, Roxy can just go on and on when she wants to. You're happy to listen, letting her words wash over you and absorb them. The platters start arriving on the table, wine bottle making its appearance. The sommelier tries to get you to taste it first and irritated, you wave him towards Roxy. She's the one that ordered it, not you. You're not the kinda guy who knows shit about wine. Roxy pronounces it good enough, she _guesses_ , and the dude pours it out into the waiting wineglasses.

The steak that arrives is a huge piece of perfectly rare meat hanging off a thick bone, almost blue. Just the way you like it. Is it because Roxy knows you, or because she has a hardshell fetish? You're willing to let it be either one right now, watching the way she cracks open the lobster and demolishes the soft flesh on the inside, slurping with enthusiasm and bringing fingers into it when cutlery fails her to make sure she gets every piece of sweet, butter soaked meat from the shell. She sure is one hell of a woman.

Tearing into your platter of beef while Roxy demolishes her lobster, you eat enough to feel satisfied. Then you both sit back and order dessert.

The waiter looks sufficiently fucking cowed that you really enjoy the cognac Roxy orders as a digestif at the end of the prolonged meal, inhaling the fumes off it like they mean something to you. Usually when you drink, you're chugging rotgut. It takes a lot to get you hammered. You're fine; she's tipsy. It's kinda endearing. Human alcohol ain't got shit to put on you, but you'll admit, it had tasted a lot better than bathtub gin.

You're a real sweetheart, y'know, she declares, bosom out-thrust as she leans over the table to talk to you. The brandy balloon in your hand doesn't shatter and you congratulate yourself silently on your self control. The restaurant is nearly empty by now. The civilised audience has trickled out. They're starting to clean up, you know the signs. Hey. It's not like you haven't been _other_ things, besides what you are now. You like who you are now better.

Thanks, you say and try not to let your eyes fall straight down the mysterious valley of her cleavage, or at least not obviously. It's a tempting sight for a redblooded man like yourself, and she's practically given you an invitation but you're trying to play a gentleman. Not be a lech. You sip and try not to swallow too audibly. Hot damn, you think to yourself. You're a hell of a woman, you say out loud. I enjoyed tonight.

She dimples at you, in a way you could fall in love with constantly. Maybe you'll even get the chance; it's starting to seem like i wouldn't be impossible. Reaching over, she puts her hand over yours on the table, slim fingers interlacing with your gargantuan ones as though nothing different between the two of you, the size difference, the species, is a problem. Her skin is warm.

Me too, she whispers and the two of you just stare into each other's eyes over the table for a long, enduring moment.

At some point or another you guess you'll have to tell her who Hearts Boxcars is. What kind of man you grew up to become, but hey. Right now it's only the first date. Neither of you have shared anything very deep, although you're thinking fondly of what could happen on the next date. Maybe. If there is a next date.

Let's get outta here, you suggest finally after paying the bill by tucking a few benjamins into the copy folder that the skittish young dude had left on your table to the left, tearing your gaze from hers as you stand up and retrieve your hat. Offer her your arm. She sweep her clutch handbag into her grip, the wreath of diamontes clasp glittering against the pink satin. Taking your arm, slim hand tucked firmly into the crook of your elbow, the two of you head out.

You don't offer her a lift. Ain't like the two of you have built up that kind of trust yet.

You do wait with her outside the restaurant until her taxi turns up, the two of you smoking quietly while keeping up the easy conversation. She lit her cigarette off yours and is currently gesturing with it animatedly, the cherry tracing trails through the night air. It's gone dark, the street lamps are shining golden in a way they don't around the parts where you usually hang your hat. You pause to admire the way it gives her a halo, luminescence behind her head as she keeps talking, like if she stops, everything stops. 

When the taxi you called at least half an hour ago finally purrs to a stop at the curb, she hesitates, then trips over and throws money in the window.

Keep it running a few minutes, why don't ya, she says to the driver, and then comes back to you. Graceful legs a little unsteady between the heels she's got on her pins and the aftereffects of dinner. You look down at her, while she looks up at you. Neither of you saying anything for a moment, just _looking_. She's flushed and sweet looking, curls framing that glamorous face. The corner of her mouth has a little smudge of lipstick trailing off towards her cheek like a shadow where she's maybe touched her face, or dragged it with her cigarette. She looks good; damn good. 

I _really_ had a good time t'night, she says, breathless. 

Yeah. Yeah, me too.

You don't know what to say. You don't know what to do. You know what all the gents in the movies you watch would do, with her watching you and so obviously wanting something. Good thing for you both that she takes the decision out of your hands; what can you say, you're a mook by nature. Reaching up, she grabs the lapels of your jacket and pulls you down into a searing kiss; you bring your hands around to rest carefully on her hips, her waist. Close your eyes and resist the urge to lift an ankle a little bit. You're the _man_ in this situation, even if she'd been the one to lead the blistering hot smooch she's laying on you like she wants to eat you - you know what that feels like from the other side, alright. Her hips feel so small in your grip, fingers meeting at the small of her back. Feeling the silk of her dress rustle against your palms.

She pulls back; licks her lips, the paint she's wearing smudged even more around her mouth.

Well, well, she says in a rush, good night! She pecks you again on the cheek, another type of branding gesture before stalking her way back to her cab where the driver is waiting, his eagerness to be on his way assuaged by the money she's already thrown at him. He'd been wise not to take it and drive off; you'd seen his license plate. Look, taking the money implied a contract, see? And you fuckin' hate guys who don't hold up their end of an agreement.

You lift your hand to wave her off, and she rolls the window down in a hurry to blow you a series of exuberant kisses as her taxi chugs its way off into the night. They hadn't sent one of their better ones in the fleet, that was for sure. You frown minutely to yourself; might put in a word to someone about that. A lady like that deserved the best. Finishing your cigarette, you consider for a moment throwing it into the restaurant before dropping it in the gutter. They're closed anyway. Stuffing your fists into the pockets of your pants and distorting the line of your suit in a way that would drive Droog absolutely wild, you stump off to your own vehicular mode of transportation to drive back to headquarters. You lift your jacket a little towards your face as you drive; you can smell her perfume, her cigarette on your clothes. 

You let yourself in.

Hang your hat on the hook near the door and shrug your way out of your jacket.

Undo the bowtie, letting it hang loose around your throat.

I need a drink, you say to no one, and make your way to the kitchen. Droog is sitting there, ashtray in front of him and a series of black cigarettes stubbed out in it. The sweet scent of cloves fills the air, he's still got one between his fingers where he's sitting. Leaned back a little in his chair, still as composed and put together as a Renaissance painting in the lean lines of his black suit. You look at him, tilting your head a little, before going to the cupboard to find something to put some whisky in. You're not standing on ceremony for him; he's crew but he's also a god damn asshole.

Back late, Droog remarks idly and you don't look at him. Just grunt to show you heard him and you ain't dignifying that with an answer as your fingers fumble their way around a glass and put it down on the counter. What is he, your maternal nurturer substitute? You hear him exhale softly as you grab some ice from the maker installed in the front of the icebox and splash a decent couple of fingers on top. You know he means for you to hear him breathing. If he didn't want you to hear him, you wouldn't, simple as that. 

Then you hear his voice right from over your shoulder, his presence suddenly as solid at your back as a gravestone.

Nice to see you enjoyed your night out.

Yeah, it was fine, you say, and turn around to force him to take a step back. Picking up your glass, you lean carefully against the counter and sip from your glass, looking down at him. Why you askin', you say. He very subtly smirks, a blink and you'd miss it kind of expression before his hand is on your face. Wiping across the corner of your mouth where you'd pulled the glass away to talk to him. You splutter in shock, asking him what's the big fuckin' idea?

He rubs his fingers together, and now you can see a different black to the mutually shared colour of your carapaces smear across the thinner fragments of his shell. Something slick, Roxy's lipstick that she's left plastered all over your chops when she kissed you and you can feel embarrassment coming up hot and red in your cheeks. That smug dilettantory _asshole_.

Sleep tight, Hearts. Betcha'll be havin' some sweet dreams.

Go _fuck_ yourself, you spit sourly and down your booze quick as he saunters his way out of the room. Your dreams ain't none of his business, and you exhale sharply on that thought before pouring yourself another drink right on top of the first. The ice ain't even really had time to melt. 

Despite yourself, your lips quirk up a little into a small smug grin of your own. Ain't like Droog's the one with a gal's paint smudged off on his mouth, is he, despite being the fucking picture of a prettyboy asshole. Nah. It's you. Your phone buzzes, pressed against your hip and you pull it out to check it.

The app for the dating website shows you've got mail. You know who it's from without even looking, and you've got a good feel about what it's gonna say.

Guess you're gonna be going on another date pretty soon.


End file.
